My folks were expecting me home over the weekend. Mom's sister was flying in from Europe Sunday morning. But I couldn't let them see me like this, split lip and weak with anger and shame. My parents had survived Hitler's terror both on the battlefield and in the concentration camps. They were relentless and strong. I couldn't let them see me being anything less than what they'd always been.
My face felt sticky and wet and I sniffled so loud that the sound went around the library like a calling card advertising that I was being pathetic, crying over some bastard in the fourth-floor Politics and Religion stacks.
It only took that small noise for Isaac to find me. He moved slow and quiet, stopping at the beginning of the row to look to his left, squinting to see me in shadows and darkness.
"Miss Riley?" His voice was soft, as though he wasn't sure of what he saw when he looked down the aisle. Then he must have spotted my red hair as it hung around my face, and moved toward me with a welcoming smile. It was only when I wiped my face dry with the back of my hand that Isaacs's steps slowed.
He squatted in front of me, arms resting on his thighs as he moved his head to the side, looking like he just wanted a glimpse of my face still hidden behind my tangled hair.
"You didn't show. I waited for you. Almost time to close up." His voice was soft, the guilt of disappointing someone else, too, swam like piranha in my stomach.
"I'm sorry." I sniffled, using my nails to comb the knots from my hair. "I got into … there was something that came up and then I just … " I waved a hand, motioning around the books. "I ended up here."
Failure was not an emotion I generally felt. It simply wasn't allowed in my father's home. You worked hard, you were rewarded. You didn't work hard enough and you tried again. I had not forced Trent's punch and I damn well knew it wasn't my fault, but that didn't make the sensation burning me up from the inside any less painful.
Isaac didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He simply waited for me to say something else. The silence around us became too much, the weight of it too heavy for me to stand, and I forced my head up, to look right at him. I watched his eyes flick quickly to my busted lip, his gaze steely.
I waited for ten full seconds as he stared at me. His focus was strong, felt like a wave over my features and I fought back more tears, wanting so badly to let him comfort me, but fearing to seem any more weak and pathetic than I already was. The silence between us was uncomfortable, as was the fierce anger that began to shift his expression. There was rage brimming behind his eyes and the disgust and hatred moved his nostrils into a flare. Unbidden, the collection of tears hanging onto my lashes dropped onto my cheek. It was then that he seemed to calm.
"I'm a mess." It was an excuse I threw out that he ignored, moving to lift a knuckle under my chin.
"You're so beautiful, Miss Riley."
My breath caught. No one had looked at me the way Isaac was; like I was remarkable. Like there wasn't a dozen ginger-headed girls with dark brown eyes running around the city. Like my pale skin and a million freckles were exotic or interesting. Like that busted lip wasn't there, didn't belong. Isaac looked at me like he saw me, really saw me and it took my breath away.
My body shuddered when he palmed my face and I blinked, wincing when he brought out a handkerchief to my wet cheeks and still bleeding lip. He fixed me up without me asking, so gently, like it was something he'd do if I had or not and I felt the tension in my gut settle, release and vanish the longer Isaac went about cleaning me up.
He made me feel safe, protected in a way no one but my father had before.
"A man does this to a woman," he said, brushing the hair behind my ears, "and he deserves to be put down like a dog." Isaac paused, and I could smell sandalwood on his skin, chased by the smallest hint of bleach. "You say the word and I'll put that dog down."
Something happened to me then, a fierce rush of something that made me want to do nothing but cling to Isaac, damn his arguments about our differences. I wanted to kiss him then, to hold onto him until we were breathless. He wanted to avenge me, to protect me from the danger I couldn't protect myself from and some small part of me, a part that was ancient and primal, found this singularly attractive. Oh how I wanted to give him permission; I wanted to be protected. But the world we lived in, even in D.C. as Isaac had always promised, did not allow the freedom to attack and not be punished. Especially for someone like Isaac.